


warmth / cinnamon sugar

by vl_kyrie



Series: Jetko Renaissance Week [2]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Jetko Week, M/M, Self-Indulgent, Sickfic, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:21:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27101869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vl_kyrie/pseuds/vl_kyrie
Summary: Jetko Renaissance Week 2020- Day 2, Warmth" Jet fishes his phone out of his jean pocket. He swipes through to the phone app, clicks the name at the top labelled “Boyf 🔥💕.”“Jet?” Zuko says, grainy through the phone. He sounds sleepy. Jet feels a little bad for waking him up early on his day off. “What’s up?”“Hi. Sorry. Didn’t mean t’ wake you,” Jet says. “...But can you come get me? ‘M sick.” "(Jet's not invincible. Good thing Zuko's around to take care of him, then.)(Or: sickfic because Jet deserves to be babied too sometimes)
Relationships: Jet/Zuko (Avatar)
Series: Jetko Renaissance Week [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1976929
Comments: 4
Kudos: 48
Collections: Jetko Renaissance Week





	warmth / cinnamon sugar

**Author's Note:**

> this is only like half jetko because i forgot what i was doing halfway through so like. enjoy whump w jetko sprinkled on top. sorry
> 
> i have no excuse as to why i made them all work at a bakery. i just got the mental image of all these edgy kids making sweets and i nearly burst into tears at the thought, so. you get this.

2:00 am. His phone’s alarm goes off, same as the day before, and the day before. It’s silent. Jet always puts it under his pillow so it’s the vibrations waking him up, and so Zuko’s not bothered. 

Jet sits up on his side of the bed, rolls his neck, twists his hips as far as he can either side until he feels the  _ pop.  _ Leans back over to press a quick kiss to the side of Zuko’s head where it’s still resting on its pillow -- gets a sleepy “mmh,” in response. 

“Love you, see you later,” Jet whispers, but Zuko’s already back asleep. Sure, he rises with the sun -- but never a minute before, Jet chuckles to himself. Another second to run his knuckles down the line of Zuko’s jaw, watch his face melt slack, then Jet’s stumbling out of their bedroom and into the bathroom to shower.

Except-- oh,  _ ouch, wow,  _ that shit’s  _ bright.  _ Jet’s face twists and he brings an arm up to cover his eyes. Bright, and sharp. The lightbulb above the sink is, like, a million watts more than usual or something, because it sends a jab right through his eyes and out the back of his head. He keeps his eyes squinty as he strips and steps into the shower, and the hot water does… unfortunately little to dissuade the pounding in his head. Still, he scrubs himself down, brushes his teeth (in the shower, yes. It saves time. Fuck off, Zuko, yes it  _ does,  _ this is how he’s always done it he wouldn’t do it if it  _ weren’t  _ more efficient that way-), dresses in his usual work uniform: black button shirt over his dark-wash jeans, apron already in his work bag after being washed last night. It’s really a good thing it’s a small place and his boss is chill, he’d probably kill a man if he had to wear anything fancier all day. Jet’s head still hurts when he’s ready to walk out the door, maybe even getting worse, but it’s okay. Probably the weather changing -- it’s fall, storms are likely, not like it’s anything worth fretting about. This happens. 

Except (and today’s full of exceptions, isn’t it?) that his headache still isn’t gone by the time he’s at work and had his morning coffee, even after going through his usual routine of wiping down the counters, prepping the dough for the sweets, greeting his coworkers as they stream in one by one after him. When there’s a lull in the work, he takes a painkiller from his bag. Honestly should’ve just done that earlier, but no matter, he’s done it now. 

June’s here now, and she helps Jet to start rolling and cutting the donuts. This batch is going to be cinnamon sugar. Jet puts a little extra love into them; cinnamon’s Zuko’s favourite, he’ll bring him back some when he gets home. 

He and June exchange casual words like every day. His headache’s begun to spread down to his neck and ears while they work; if she notices he’s feeling unwell today, she doesn’t mention it, at least until they’re done putting the trays of donuts in the ovens and she says, “Go take one of your breaks. You look like you’re going to fall over.” It’s been a handful of hours since Jet’s started now, so he murmurs his assent and hangs his apron up on a hook in the back room where he sips water and fights the urge to lay down on the floor. Clearly, the painkiller he took earlier hasn’t done anything, so he takes another. It’s only regular strength. Two’s fine. 

Normally Jet’d be snacking before his lunch break, but today his stomach turns a little bit at the thought. Actually, even the smell of the donuts in the oven is starting to make his mouth water, and not in the good way. Jet’s not really sure what’s up with him today, then. He never gets sick, so he’s not super keen on calling it that just yet - he’s just feeling  _ off.  _ Under the weather. A little iffy. No biggie. He’ll get over it. Nothing a little hard work can’t fix.

Fifteen minutes pass, and Jet puts back on his apron, ties the straps around his back in a loose bow, and goes back to mixing up a bowl of cinnamon sugar while he waits for the donuts to finish. June’s on the other side of the kitchen whisking something, so he’s on his own. 

For a while, Jet’s almost feeling better. He gets the donuts done, dipped in butter and coated with sugar and then lined up at the front all pretty-like, and at that point they’re almost ready to open so Jet works on assembling the macarons June was whipping earlier. He finishes those too, and then it’s a quick wipedown of the counters before back to work. 

A bell at the front door chimes, signalling their first customers of the day. Bee’s on the counter, so he doesn’t worry about it, save for a quick glance up from his kneading. A group of girls, ordering teas and pastries before they head into their office internships, or their early-morning university classes, or their… Jet’s not really sure what women that age do. Either way. 

One of the girls, a pretty little thing with braided hair and a pink skirt, drops a packet of sugar on the ground while she’s doctoring up her drink. Little granules spill on the tile. She blurts out a quick apology, but Jet’s already there, mini dustpan and broom in hand to save the day. Her cohorts quickly usher her out the door,  _ gotta go can’t be late.  _ Jet crouches down to sweep under the condiment bar. The leaning down isn’t a problem, but when he stands back up, his head rushes and his stomach goes with. He stumbles a little on his feet; Bee shoots him a look from the register and says, “You all good?” 

“Peachy,” Jet calls back, and presses a hand flat over one of his eyes. Ugh. This is embarrassing. Imagine having trouble  _ sweeping.  _

Fortunately, or not, Jet’s distracted from feeling any more fed up with himself, because someone walks by in the kitchen with a tray of fruity-smelling somethings that make Jet’s insides sour, and now the back of his throat’s warm and his mouth is wet and he half-runs into the washroom, dustpan abandoned. He shuts the door and gags over the sink, but he hasn’t eaten anything, so he just coughs and spits. A bead of sweat works its way down his temple, and he wipes his face with a paper towel with a groan. Okay,  _ maybe  _ he’s sick. He’s worked here for a while now and not once has he been  _ that  _ off turned by a smell, but thinking about it again was a mistake and makes him gag, again, and he splashes his face with water from the sink, and someone takes that moment to knock on the door, loudly, and his head throbs.  _ What a mess.  _

“Jet? Are you good?” It’s Ty Lee, she calls through the door, and she sounds a bit worried.  _ Great.  _ “You ran off pretty quick, and I was going to make sure you were okay, but I can hear you and you don’t  _ sound  _ good. Your aura's all muddy today.”

“‘M fine, Ty Lee,” Jet answers, “Just gimme a minute. Go back to what you were doing.” 

“...If you’re sure,” she says, then after a moment’s hesitation he can hear her footsteps padding away, back to the kitchen. 

Jet sighs. He takes a few deep breaths. It does little to quell the nausea that’s now solidly settled in his stomach. He still feels like he might start heaving again, if he tries to move from his hunch over the sink. There’s ice picks in his brain and stones in his stomach. It’s taking a lot of self control to not just curl up on the floor and go to sleep right here. Okay, fine. There’s no getting over this in a ‘minute.’ And there’s no working with food, either, if he’s this sick. He’ll have to cash in a half sick-day; it’s fine, he’s got them saved up, the boss’ll understand. 

Jet fishes his phone out of his jean pocket. He swipes through to the phone app, clicks the name at the top labelled “Boyf 🔥💕.” 

A few rings, then it’s through. 

“Jet?” Zuko says, grainy through the phone. He sounds sleepy. Jet feels a little bad for waking him up early on his day off. “What’s up?” 

“Hi. Sorry. Didn’t mean t’ wake you,” Jet says. “...But can you come get me? ‘M sick.”

There’s rustling on the other end. A  _ thud.  _ Zuko sounds more awake now when he says, “Shoot, yeah, sure, I’ll come get you, I’m coming right now, I won’t be long, don’t w-”

“‘S fine, don’t rush,” Jet shushes him. “I’m a big boy. I’ll be fine.” 

“Yeah, but you’re  _ never  _ sick, and if you can’t even drive yourself it’s gotta be pretty bad. Don’t go anywhere, I’ll be there soon.” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Jet replies.  _ Call ended.  _ He gives himself another minute to wallow in the misery of his unfortunate illness, then peels himself off the sink and shuffles out the door. The boss lady’s there, and he waves a hand and says, “I’m sick. I’m taking a half day.” 

“Please do. You look like death. Besides, it’s the middle of the week. Nothing we can’t handle without you. Go home and get some rest,” she says. God, this place is the best, there’s like no rules. Doesn’t hurt that he’s on the boss’s good side. 

Jet salutes her lazily. He’ll wait outside for some fresh air, and so he’s not being gross around all the food. 

The nausea has faded, and now Jet's just starting to feel like his body's being filled with lead. Zuko pulls into the parking lot shortly after, and he pops the passenger door for Jet to slide in and say, “I’m dying.” 

“Are you, now. You said you were fine before. Is it that bad?” Zuko asks.

“I never get sick. I might as well be on my deathbed.”

“You’re such a drama queen sometimes. Come on, put your seatbelt on so I can get you into bed.”   
  


“Fine,  _ mom,”  _ Jet begrudges. He obliges, and they’re off. Zuko’s got one of his boring mellow cds in the player. Jet’s eyes keep trying to slip closed. They don’t say much on the ride home, and when they get there Jet’s basically asleep in his seat. 

“Come on, tough guy. I’m not carrying you in. You’re too tall.” Zuko opens Jet’s door, stands there with his hands on his hips. Jet peeks his eyes open and notices Zuko’s still wearing pajama pants. He doesn’t even look like he’s brushed his hair. 

“Jet. The sooner you get into bed, the sooner you’ll feel better.” He sounds like he’s talking to a petulant child, and Jet can’t help but smile a bit. Mom indeed. 

“You’re funny,” Jet says, and he finally follows Zuko out the car and up the steps of their little rented house. Jet steps forward and puts his forehead on Zuko’s shoulder while Zuko fumbles with the keys. 

“Oh, you’re pretty warm,” Zuko says. “Go up to bed. I’ll bring you something to drink.”

Jet grunts in acknowledgement. Now that they’re actually at home he’s too foggy-headed for much in the way of real words. Zuko lets them in; Jet makes a beeline for the bedroom. He has half a mind to take off his work shirt and jeans and leave them in a pile on the floor before he crawls into bed, clad in an undershirt and boxers (they’re blue boxers, with sharks printed on them. Zuko bought them for him online). When Zuko comes into the bedroom, Jet almost doesn’t notice because he’s too busy curling up under all their blankets. Zuko sets a glass of water on his bedside table, puts a bin on the floor. 

“How’re you feeling?” Zuko asks. 

“Cold. Get back into bed and warm me up,” Jet says.

“You have a bit of a fever. You probably shouldn’t be under all those blankets.”   
  
“Don’t care,” Jet says, “I’m cold, and this is comfy.”

“How about a compromise. Take away some of the blankets and I’ll come lay down with you.”

Wordlessly, Jet lifts an arm to make space for Zuko. Zuko laughs, but it turns into a yawn as he settles himself next to Jet. 

“I don’t know how you can work so early. I’m tired now and it’s only barely a reasonable time of day,” Zuko complains. Jet hums.

“It’s my secret power. That, and my rock-hard immune system.”   
  


“Mm. I’m sure,” Zuko yawns, again. His hands are warm, tucked against Jet’s side. Okay, maybe being sick’s not  _ so  _ bad, if he gets to do this while he rests. 

Jet’s nearly asleep, and he’s pretty sure Zuko is too, when he blinks awake and says, “Oh.”

Zuko stirs. “What?” 

“I forgot your donuts,” Jet says. “I did a good job on them today, too.” 

“Oh, well. Guess you’ll have to make it up some other time.” 

“Mmyeah.” A beat, while he thinks, “Maybe next time it’ll be  _ you _ who’s sick and I’ll bring you baked goods to help you heal.”   
  


“Sounds good to me,” Zuko says. They fall back into a lull for about another half hour, warm and sleepy and huddled close together, until Jet whispers, “Hey. Zuko.” 

“What, Jet.” 

“...Move. I have to pee.”   
  


**Author's Note:**

> tea girl is supposed to be song btw but ig it barely counts as a cameo;;;;


End file.
